Moms and Magic

Nobody comprehends what takes place in a mother’s day. But I’m here to tell you, it’s unbelievable — like magic. I remembered this fact after I survived yesterday — a day my husband was out of town.

I woke up at 6 a.m. There wasn’t a minute to lounge in bed because it was time to start breakfast, rouse the kids and get our morning moving. By 6:45, I had cooked eggs and toast, mixed juice and was packing lunches. (This was in between getting nine kids out of bed, reminding one to switch her laundry, putting a Band-Aid on a stubbed leg [how does that happen?] and resolving conflicts over which shirt was “cold-weather” appropriate.) By 6:55, I had sent my first batch of students out the door.

Fifteen minutes later, the next crew was ready for breakfast, so I fried up fresh eggs and continued packing lunches. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine peanut butter sandwiches made by then. One, two, three... (you get the picture) bags of carrots, cheese sticks, apples, cookies, and I finally had the rest of the lunch bags sitting by the door. My 5-year-old set the table, my 14-year-old brushed hair for the little girls, my 7-year-old fed the chickens, my 12-year-old emptied the dishwasher and my 9-year-old dressed the toddler. Our kitchen was a beehive of activity.

Then the next phase of kids left. “Can’t you drive me today?” “No, the 10-minute walk will feel good.” I had just started to clean up the final round of breakfast when, “Today’s ‘Moms and Magic!’” My 2nd grader reminded me about the special morning for mothers at the school. We were already 15 minutes late, so I swapped my pajamas for sweats, and we all ran out the door — four students, my toddler and me.

“Buzzzzz…” My cell phone rang. “I forgot my trumpet.” My 7th grader was distraught. I promised to bring it later, and then we were at the elementary school. I herded my kids into the crowded gym and tried not to stare at some of the stylish moms around me. “What time did she wake up to have make-up on?” “All of her kids have matching outfits.” I couldn’t help but wonder and feel jealous.

Finally, my heart rate slowed and I watched the show, trying to laugh when the magician pulled a rabbit out of his hat. “I could use a bit of magic in my own life,” I concluded. “Pulling sandwiches out of a hat? Dressing kids (or myself) with a wave of a wand?”

An hour later I was home, still aching for a shower and with a mess to clean up. No piano had been practiced, no dishes had been washed, and, oh, the lunches! I sped through the morning, running to school to take trumpet and lunches, then to the bank, and then to the neighbor’s house to pick up dance shoes for my daughter.

The phone rang again. “It’s early day today!” My brain had forgotten, and my poor kindergarteners were waiting at the curb. “Can we play?” the neighbor girl asked. “Can we have mac and cheese for lunch?” (Didn’t I just clean up a meal?) We whizzed through the food, and I sent the kids outside.

In a moment of quiet, I picked up the phone to make an appointment for my teen. “Our computer’s down, can you call back tomorrow?” the receptionist asked. “No!” I wanted to shout. “I only have 30 seconds to devote to this conversation!” But I went on, solving a problem for a different child, booking flights for my parents and chatting with the piano teacher.

The afternoon sped by, and soon the elementary school was finished (early, of course) and I was on my way to one, two, three, four parent teacher conferences. Then off to the oral surgeon’s office for a quick check-up with my teen. I tried to reflect some dignity as we sat in the posh waiting room, despite my mom-do and the three preschoolers I was entertaining.

As we left, I glanced down and saw on my shirt the huge doggie sticker my toddler had stuck on me earlier that morning. Bright red and just under my chin, it seemed to declare that despite my best smiles I was a disheveled mother. I tried to recall how many people, secretaries and doctors had seen it blatantly there all day. My mom humiliation was complete.

“I have to be at work in 45 minutes,” my oldest reminded me as we drove away. So in a rare move, we stopped and got pizza — totally worth the $18 (and a salve to my wounded pride) — and then we were home, eating dinner, reminding kids to clean up, signing homework, drilling math facts, and of course giving baths, brushing teeth, reading stores, reading more stories, saying prayers and tucking one, two, three, four, five, six, seven children into bed. (The last two were working late and could fend for themselves.) I dropped, exhausted, into my own bed.

“How did you manage?” My husband called later that night. “You have no idea,” I started to explain. Teens, tweens, toddlers, time and a red dog sticker. Next time, just hand me a magic wand.